Scars
by ratatatkat
Summary: Prussia, France, Spain, England, Scotland, Netherlands, Denmark, Sweden, America, and Canada each recall a time in their detailed past that has left them with a notable scar.  Intro
1. The Bar in Berlin

Ten nations sat in the dimly lit, vacant bar, with half-empty glasses of beer that would soon need to be refilled.

Well, half-full, if you are a part of this fine night.

The nations had gathered in Berlin for their once-a-year summit; it was Germany's turn to host the meeting. He had since retired to his mansion, and most of the others to their hotels. It was a long day, with no particular fun and a building tension that Prussia felt needed to be relieved. He decided to do so by taking "the boys" to one of his favorite bars just blocks from their conference area.

The boys included France, Spain, England, Scotland, Holland (who preferred Netherlands, but Prussia would just call him that tick him off) Denmark, and Sweden. America and Canada had tagged along to the insistence of England, who claimed he "didn't want the blokes to be left out", but really just wanted to keep his former colonies out of trouble.

Which America saw clearly and thought funny, because trouble was written all over this setting.

Disappointingly, it would not be the case, rather, a bunch of "old gasbags talking about being old gasbags, blah blah blah." Canada giggled when his brother whispered this statement to him.

"Hey, hey, I see you." Scotland demanded, "What's so funny?" His tone was mock-angry as he narrowed his eyes at the western nations from where he sat across the rounded table.

The Scott never particularly took part in the discussions that went on in his social circle, but he enjoyed observing, and presenting an intimidating air.

"Mmmhh-?" Denmark questioned, leaving his previous train of thought. The rest of the nations had stopped their conversation and turned to look to find out what Scotland had spoken about.

Canada worried about being disrespectful, and he nervously placed his hands in his lap. "O-oh," he stammered, "it's just that-"

"It's just that you're all old and boring!" America blurted. He had no such worries. The  
American couldn't help but be rude, he loved to talk but instead found himself in a situation where he could contribute nothing. He loved history, and was always genuinely interested in cultures other than his own, but that wasn't the topic, at least to him. All that America gathered was that he was at a table of clearly good friends, sharing inside jokes and stories he would never hope to understand.

France ignored America and instead looked sympathetically at Canada, who sat shrugged in quiet agreement. He smiled to himself and felt pride when he looked on his former colony.

Spain noticed France, and was instantly reminded of Romano. It was clear why France was proud. Even if Canada had a brother that wasn't particularly liked, _he _loved him dearly, and stood by most everyone one of his decisions, whether or not he agreed with them. He always stood up for his big brother, even if no one else would, and took it upon himself to do that now.

"He's kind of right…" Canada began. "but I wouldn't phrase it the same way. Uhh…" his mouth opened as he tried to find an appropriate statement, but was quickly interrupted by a drunken and irritated England.

"Well, then, if we are soooo boring, then maybe you should just leave." he giggled. He tried to stay on the subject of his anger, but the amount of alcohol he had consumed was simply not allowing him to.

"England," Canada smiled weakly, "it's not that. You are all plenty interesting, it's just that you're all talking…amongst yourselves, and it's a way that makes it difficult for either of us to gather anything."

He rounded his head and glared at his brother, his expression demanding an apology.

America sighed dramatically and began his apology

"Look, you are all plenty interesting, no joke, but us whippersnappers weren't around 'that one time', so slow the fuck down. I mean, come on, I'm sure there are _some _things not all of us know about each other. Talk about new stuff, I guess."

Canada shrugged. Close enough.

France nodded quietly. They had been rude in front of guests, and he hadn't even realized. Spain understood only partially, but decided not to speak for fear that Netherlands would become annoyed with him.

"Well whaddya want from us." Sweden mulled with a lazy grin. "We're boring." Denmark smiled at his friend's words; he had always insisted Sverige was playful, just deep down. Deep, deep down. Alcohol was an invaluable ingredient that helped that side of him emerge, and this pleased the Dane. Playful Sweden was much more fun.

England sighed and rolled his eyes. "Gits." he mumbled under his breath. A dead arm delivered by Scotland hushed him and served as a reminder to cut his rudeness. Most of the table giggled softly, and England cringed with embarrassment. He brought his beer to his lips and finished it nonchalantly in hopes to silence that emotion he so hated.

"Well." Netherlands broke the chuckles and set his glass on the table with a blunt whack. He withdrew his pipe from the folds of his coat, lit it, and continued. "I hate to disappoint you, but Sweden is right. We are truly uninteresting.

Denmark laughed and gently hit Netherlands on the arm. "Man, don't be like that." he laughed encouragingly. He saw right through the Dutch nation; it was clear his only goal was to avoid revealing anything about himself. The more mysterious he was, the more threating he was.

But Denmark would have none of it. He thought America and Canada were cool guys, and he didn't want to exclude them by keeping knowledge from them.

"Guys," Denmark pointed a finger at America, but kept his focus on Netherlands. "Listen up. You'll want to hear Scarface speak. He's backed with tales of adventure."

Netherlands glowered at Denmark, then looked around the table of expectant faces. It urked him most to see Spains'.

The damn Spanish nation was always too happy, and his large green eyes looked at him expectantly. He looked like a puppy, only much less intelligent. Nevertheless, those green eyes told him exactly what to say.

"Tch." Netherlands rolled his eyes in defeat. "Fine." He leaned into the table and raised his hands. "Gather 'round, children, and I will tell you…" he sighed for dramatic effect. "how I got my scar."

He used his hand to point at the spot on his forehead, but it wasn't necessary. The nations knew exactly where the scar was, but none of them had the faintest idea of how it got there. Many nations knew him before it was there, but… it had suddenly appeared. The particular event had slipped through the cracks of their memories. Younger nations were much too scared to ask him about it, and older nations had tried to guess on milestones in his history, but now they would finally know for sure.

This was a fairly exciting moment. No one knew but himself… and Spain. Antonio knew exactly how it got there. But he would never betray his friend's trust by speaking it. He was now somewhat smug the Dutch nation was finally willing to share.

Netherlands picked up his beer again, and rocked back in his chair. He smiled sarcastically and spoke in an ominous voice. "The year was 1609…"


	2. The Dutch Revolt

**EDIT: **wow, i flippin, wow i had a break in the flashback bit but the DM messed it up and i didn't look it over augh i'm sorry OTL

the translations are now at the bottom :)

* * *

"Stay here, _zuster_." Netherlands cooed. He motioned Belgium onto the bedstead of the master bedroom on the second floor of his large house. She was clutching a small Luxembourg's hand, who was shivering with fright. Netherlands rushed around the room, quickly closing windows and blinds. The large coat that accompanied his military uniform swished around him as he moved.

"You're treating me like a baby!" Belgium whined, "I want to go outside," she continued. "I want to go outside and see España!"

Netherlands stopped suddenly in the doorway of the room. He stared at the floor quietly, before raising his head and looking at his siblings solemnly.

"Please…" he begged meekly, "stay here."

With that, the Dutch nation backed out of the room and stretched his arms to take hold of either door handle. He closed the grand doors hastily, and a final _bang_ sounded when they met each other in closing. Belgium watched her brother vanish with disdain.

She released Luxembourg's hand and crossed her arms. "Hmph!" she squeaked defiantly, apparently unaware of the severity that came with the situation.

"B-Bel," Luxembourg advised. He brought his hands to his lap and played with them timidly. "I think we should listen to him…"

"Why?" Belgium questioned. "I don't see what the fuss is! "Let's just go downstairs, I want to see Antoni-"

She was interrupted by a large crash that radiated throughout the entire house. It shook the room violently, startling the two nations. Luxembourg yelped and clutched his sister's waist, burying his head into her abdomen. Shocked by the crash, she held him tightly as he began so snivel weakly onto her stomach.

Netherlands stepped outside, dazed. A commanding officer informed him that a line of Spanish soldiers had reached the back of the house, and were currently being fought off.

"Dank u wel, laat ze niet vooraf." he commanded.

"Ja memeer!" the officer responded. He then darted around the corner of the estate, relaying the order.

This was an extremely delicate situation. He risked leaving his siblings to the hands of the Spaniards, and he risked leaving his masses without a sole command. He frowned and put his hand on his forehead. _What…what should I do…_ he thought.

For almost eighty years the warring dubbed The Dutch Revolt had radiated throughout the entirety of the Netherlands. It was only here and now that the rebellion had finally reached Amsterdam. Spain was the sole command of the oppressing force, and his foolish tactics had thus far caused him to lose control of seventeen total provinces. Out of final desperation, he set his sights on controlling the capital. If he could siege, he would regain the entirety of the Dutch Republic.

Netherlands contemplated rounding the back himself to check the situation. His head darted apprehensively from his residence to a spot in the forest where he knew a hidden path to be, one that would take him to the immediate epicenter of the city.

Several obscure paths led into the clearing of forest where Netherland's mansion was located, and he figured that Spain must have directed the line to one. Realizing this, he clenched his fists in anger.

_How low. _he thought bitterly. _How low of him to send here. _He grit his teeth indignantly. Cities, towns, governmental buildings; attacks on those he could understand. But to physically attack a nation's personal home, the one place that should be sacred, untouched, uncorrupted. It was unheard of.

Netherlands' attention was stolen by a soaring flame that shot from the direction of the city, reaching above the towering trees of the forest. He stared in horror, and giving one final glance behind him, forced himself to abandon his siblings and sprinted as fast as he could to the spot in the bushes.

The farther he advanced down the trail, the more thoughts crowded his mind. He was disgusted, infuriated, and terrified. The emotions he felt fueled him as he carried himself faster down the path and he had to dodge overgrown branches and roots to avoid being slowed.

Netherlands noticed just how unkempt the path had become, it'd been well over eighty years since anyone had been for walk on it. He remembered how he would take his siblings for quiet walks, how he would have friendly conversations with one of his closest friends…

In the midst of thought his eyes caught a short tree stump covered in aging moss. Netherlands froze in his path.  
_

"Come now, _hija," _Spain strode to a short tree stump, verging slightly to the side of the woodland path, and took a seat. He outstretched his arms and beckoned for Belgium to come towards him. "Rest your feet."

Belgium rushed towards his open arms. "_Pies!" _she corrected.

Spain laughed. "Ah, muy bueno!" He grabbed her toes and wiggled them as she situated herself in his lap.

"_Dedos,_" Luxembourg corrected her correction. "You are talking about _tenen,_ so you mean _dedos._" He bent over and touched his own toes for affect.

"No, no, _dita!"_ Romano objected. "_Dita dei piedi._" he said matter-of-factly. He then punched Luxembourg in the arm.

"_AU!" _Luxembourg cried. He tackled Romano and they fought childishly on the undergrowth.

"_Oi, oi,"_ Spain waved his hand at them. "Stop that _hijos_, you are _both_ correct." He raised his gaze and addressed Netherlands, who was watching them quietly with folded arms.

"_Tu hermanos son muy inteligente!" _Spain informed him.

"Eh, what can I say." Netherlands shrugged. "They learn from the best."

"Ha ha, you flatter me, _cuate._" he laughed.

Netherlands raised an eyebrow. "Who said I was talking about you?"

Spain chuckled heartily and shook his head. He then turned his gaze to the canopy of trees and the sky above him. Netherlands looked too, and acknowledged a rain cloud rolling in from the east. He was surprised to see it; the weather had seemingly called for sun, and it had been clear up until then.

Spain noticed the clouds as well. "_Antojadizo…" _ he murmured.

The Dutch nation cocked his head and looked at him. "_Qu_é_?"_ he asked sarcastically.

"Unpredictable." Spain repeated in English. "_El cielo_…it's unpredictable. One minute _tienes azul… _clear and warm and perfect, and then grey, _gris y llueve…" _he rambled.

"_Regen…"_ Netherlands verified in his own language. They contemplated in silence until it was time to complete their walk.  
_

Netherlands was frozen. He stared blankly at the stump, mouth agape with a trembling lip.

Suddenly, he spun around and examined the sky. Grey thunderclouds had blotted out the sun.

"No," he choked. The clouds roared and sent flashes of lightning as a response. _Yes._

_No, no, no!_ he thought again to himself. _This is crazy, this is stu-_

Another crash of lightning bellowed from the clouds, interrupting his mind.

"_Why?" _ he asked no one in particular. He squeezed his eyes shut, but continued running down the path. He yelled in frustration and sprinted as fast as he could, not caring about the branches scraping his face and dirtying his clothes.

Netherlands kept running tirelessly, until finally he stumbled upon a clearing where a stream ran. The stream was too wide and presumably too deep to cross on foot, so a curved wooden bridge ran to the length of the other side. He recognized this as a landmark, revealing his proximity to town. He could hear the noises of battle and took comfort in the fact that he was fairly close now.

He rested himself and acknowledged the pressure in his chest. The nation was surprised; he'd usually advantaged himself by using his prime physical health. He truly did not expect the level of agony he was feeling now.

He shook it off and caused himself to keep moving. Netherlands made it halfway across the bridge before the affliction struck again on the left quadrant on his chest, this time intensified and acute.

He realized with terror it wasn't his lungs, wasn't caused of his run at all. A subsequent cheer and crash in the distance confirmed his fear.

The capital was falling. The demise of Amsterdam would destroy him from the inside out.

The source of the pain was clear. Eighty years of physical damage do his lands was final beginning to take its toll, here and now as it reached the heart.

The pressure augmented, so much so that blurs appeared in his vision. His entire body was shuddering, and he had to grasp the railing of to bridge in order to keep his balance.

Muscles wrapped themselves around his heart like a hand, and Netherlands gasped as they squeezed, hard. Unprepared, the agony brought him swiftly to his knees. He wrapped his arms around himself and desperately tried to catch his breath.

Just when he thought it had subsided for a moment, he straightened himself, and hesitantly took a deep breath…

It proved to be a horrible consequence.

The affliction temporarily paralyzed his entire body in crippling pain. He slammed onto his hands, and when the agony debilitated his arms, he allowed his forehead to smack against the wooden planks. Contorting into himself, he screamed in anguish. Never before had he experienced such torment.

He crawled his hands slowly back out in front of his head to support his torso. Violently, he coughed, and gravity pulled uncontrollable tears from his eyes and crimson blood from his nose and mouth. With every strained twinge, more and more blood leaked from his orifices. The blood slipped between the spaces in the wood and dripped into the stream, slightly tainting the water. Netherlands rested his head at a crude angle against the damp timber and watched half-heartedly as the stream carried the red, down around the bend of trees and finally out of sight.

The Dutch nation turned his head back down to the planks of the bridge, and thought gravely. All of his fury and determination was eclipsed by pain, fear, and sadness. He thought about death, he thought about the consequences of him dying right here, right on this insignificant little crossway.

His breaths were shaky as was his body, turning damp and cold with the misty sprinkles of water being sent by the clouds. Trying to calm himself, he squeezed his eyes shut, expelling the moisture of tears. Netherlands forced his body to remain unmoving.

For what seemed to be a hundred years, he rested, frozen on the bridge. The only signs of movement came from short, slow breaths. He distracted himself from the pain by focusing on the sound of the water, and it was by that rhythmic sound that he clung to consciousness. He lay for so long that the rain had altogether stopped, and fractions of light began to replace the clouds. The spasms of pain reminded him he was still alive, although they were beginning to grow fewer and farther between.

Finally, after the century had passed, he heard footsteps in the brush at the other end of the stream. Relieved, he smiled, believing it to be a Dutch Captain come to find him. The Spanish soldiers were plenty luck finding the first path; it was a slim chance they'd be able to locate this one.

Netherlands reverted to his knees raised his torso to identify himself when he heard the creak of feet on the boards. He used the sleeve of his coat to wipe his face, eyes still plastered closed. It was only when he heard the unsheathing of a sword that they flew open in alarm.

Under his chin he felt the cold metal of a blade. Netherlands sneered in detest when he raised his head to discover the bearer, met with cold green eyes.

Half hidden by a large collar, Spain's emotionless face looked down at him.

Netherlands continued to glower at him from the ground, refusing to show signs of defeat. He stare was so threating that Spain shuffled in his stance. He broke eye contact and spoke down to the planks.

"G-Get up." He demanded.

The Spanish nation used his weapon to quickly gesture to Netherlands' side, where his own rested, sheathed. He returned the blade and recomposed himself to gain his apathetic stance.

"No." Netherlands spat defiantly.

"_What?_" Spain spoke as if he genuinely did not understand the word. "How dare you refuse me!"

The Dutch nation's face remained unchanging.

"_Get up!" _he practically screamed. Slightly shocked, Netherlands threw a hand backwards, leaving one still holding his abdomen. Furiously, Spain withdrew his blade and stabbed it into the bridge. It shook with the force of the blow.

He extended his hand as a gesture to aid Netherlands in standing. Spain's eyes flared and his mouth was stitched into a frown.

Netherlands stared at the hand as if it was the most meaningless thing he'd ever encountered. Not at all did he consider taking it. He simply stared icily at him once more, discommending him in insolence.

Insulted, Spain panted in disbelief. "Fine!" he yelled. "Have it your way." He reached for his sword and plucked it roughly from the wood. "If you will not fight, then you will die!"

Hastily he raised it high above his head. "No!_" _a small voice shrieked from behind Netherlands. He quickly turned his head, but the voice was too late. The metal sliced the air easily as it bore down from above.

Spain's eyes went wide with shock. His arm faltered, but he still, however, met its target.

Netherlands reeled and buried his forehead into his hands.

"_Noo!" _the voice bawled again. An unpretentious girl scrambled from the undergrowth and ran up the bridge. She fell to her knees at Netherland's side, who had fallen lamely against the railing.

"Bel-Belgium…" Spain breathed.

Belgium ignored him and clutched her brother. Through sobs, she spoke to him in panicked Dutch.

"_Broer, broer! Geen, geen, stop geen, alstublieft! Alstublieft broer, het is oke, het is oke, alstublieft…"_

The Spanish nation covered his mouth with his hand as he watched them. Blood poured down the right side of Netherland's face, staining his brown hair crimson. A bloodied hand had dropped from his face; Belgium had grasped it and held it close to her. His eyes were lazily shut, and his slightly ajar mouth sent thin streams of blood down his chin.

Netherlands convulsed suddenly and brought his remaining hand to squeeze the clothes over his heart. Spain flinched backwards, startled by the action. The horrors of his deeds were finally hitting him. With wide eyes he released his grip on his sword, and it made a metallic _clang _when it hit the bridge. Stupefied eyes darted from Belgium to Netherlands.

He shook his head slowly in denial. Tears began to well in Spain's eyes. Gently, he backed away from the two nations.

"I'm…sorry." he confided. "I'm so…so sorry…Belgium…I…"

Belgium brought Netherlands' hand to her chest and held it tightly. She simply shook her head and sobbed harder.

He looked at them through watery eyes. "I'm sorry…_het spijt me…" _Spain whispered one final time.

With that, the Spanish nation turned and fled the clearing.

* * *

_"Thank you, do not allow their advance." he commanded._

_"Yes, sir!" the officer responded. He then darted around the corner of the estate, relaying the order.  
- _

_"Come now, my girl," Spain strode to a short tree stump, verging slightly to the side of the woodland path, and took a seat._

_"Hey, hey," Spain waved his hand at them. "Stop that boys, you are both correct."_

_"Your siblings are very clever!" Spain informed him._

_"Unpredictable." Spain repeated in English. "The sky…it's unpredictable. One minute you have blue… clear and warm and perfect, and then grey, grey and rain…" he rambled._

_"Rain…" Netherlands verified in his own language.  
- _

"_Brother, brother! No, no, stop no, please! Please brother, it's okay, it's okay, please…"_


	3. The Hideous Scar

Everyone sat in an awkward silence, trying to absorb and accept the story. Each was slightly stunned by the depth and power of it. Spain looked anxiously and ashamedly away, trying his best to make eye contact with no one.

"Wow…" Prussia said finally. "I was expecting you to've opened a cabinet too fast or something."

Denmark chuckled. "Ha, same here."

The tension at the table relaxed and everyone released their held breath. The two's disability to take anything seriously could be annoying, and yet beneficial.

Netherlands, however, was now somewhat angry at him, for his most valued secret was now nonexistent.

"Now," he demanded, glaring at Denmark, "You go."

"…Wait, what?" Denmark looked confusedly at him. "Go where…?"

The table laughed at him; all but Sweden, who put his hand on his forehead and sighed. "He wants you to tell a story, idiot."

"Oh…" Denmark threw his head backwards and focused on the ceiling. "Uhh…"

"You've got scars, I know you do, we all do." Netherlands informed him.

"I dunno…" Denmark admitted. "Most of the cool ones have healed."

Nevertheless, everyone beamed at him expectantly.

The Dane rubbed his neck nervously. He mumbled to himself, racking his brain as he recalled thousands of years of the past. Absentmindedly, he placed his hand on his chest.

Suddenly he lit up. "Oh!" he realized, looking down at his hand. "Duh!" Denmark quickly began unbuttoning his dress shirt while Prussia teased him.

"Woah," he laughed, "getting naked won't save you."

"Oh, shut up." The Dane rolled his eyes at the statement. "You're just jealous of my hot bod." He stuck his tongue out at Prussia childishly.

When he was finished unbuttoning just so as to reveal good portion of his chest, he pulled the left side of his shirt away to reveal a very large, disfigured scar resembling the shape of an X.

The table was awestruck staring at the particularly grotesque wound. It was indented, and yet it looked like a burn; a mark that couldn't be caused by a sword or knife. It was jagged and serrated, in stark contrast of Netherlands' smooth, consistent cut. The thing was so horrid that it looked as if someone had ripped the patch from his chest with their bare hands.

"_Ay dios mio_…" Spain murmured.

"_Oui." _France agreed.

"Oh man, that's pretty gnarly." America added.

Even Sweden looked surprised. "…'s not from-"

"Saint Brice." Scotland interrupted. He and his brother were the sole members of the table who hadn't much reacted to seeing the mark. England in particular merely stared at his empty glass.

Denmark sighed. "Yep." he verified. "Saint Brice."

* * *

_"Oh my god…" Spain murmured._

_"Yes." France agreed._


End file.
